A Storyteller's Grief
by Guavi
Summary: “The worst thing that a storyteller can encounter is if he cannot recall the beginnings.” His will never be a complete story; Ulquiorra knew that. Of course, as all stories go - even the broken ones - it wasn’t that simple. UlquiHime, drabble-ish


**A Storyteller's Grief**

**Genre: **(Melo)Drama/Romance (?)

**Inspirations: **Sidonzo's doujinshi "To Become a Hollow";_The Crucible_; Conversation with Sid about Ulquiorra's past life and why he has those tear marks; and random (I do mean, _random_) comments on the UlquiHime LJ community. I guess I was also influenced by KH and some of that Nobody business.

**Time:**…A long time. Longer than I should have taken.

**Listening to: **"Unwritten," Natasha Bedingfield; "Room of Angel," Akira Yamaoka; "Hello" and "Snow White Queen," Evanescence; "Passion – after the battle," Utada Hikaru; "Finally," Fergie; "CRUSH the 'WORLD' DowN" and "Our 'WORLD'," If-you-don't-know-who- why-the-heck-are-you-here

I do wonder what's wrong with me on a regular basis.

**A/N: **Beware of abusage of melodrama, spamming of parentheses, my only-half-correct-half-the-times Japanese, and inexperienced fic-writing. But mostly the half-correct Japanese; never, EVER trust my grammar. XD; But then…heck, I can just throw in "it's poetic" as an excuse, since poems defy all linguistic rules.

Several lines have been taken from Ulqui's image songs, most of them modified to make some semblance of sense. Cookies and hugs if you can catch them all. Extra sprinkles on top if you can catch the_Crucible_ references; which are (intentionally) not accurate to the play. (GOTTA CATCH'EM AL-- -SHOT-)

Did I mention I spew out parentheses and melodrama?

I apologize in advance if large chunks of this make no sense at all.

I have no originality (mostly written without a plan to get the hang of the characters, after all), and attempts to write more of the end part...died. So length and plot and actual _substance_ will be left for the next fic. Which is guaranteed EPIC. :

Enough blabbing, that's not what you're here for.

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* * *

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_お話を語り人の最悪の出来事は_

_The worst thing that a storyteller can encounter_

_物語の初めが思い出さない_

_Is if he cannot recall the beginnings_

.x.x.x.x.

_結末がない物語は絶えずに成長する_

_A story with no ending will grow forever_

_始まりがない物語は生きなかった_

_A story with no beginning has never lived_

.x.x.x.x.

* * *

.x.x.x.x.

His will never be a complete story; Ulquiorra knew that. (Not that he cared; he's no storyteller.) He could not remember anything from his life before, could not remember why he became what he is. Did not know why he chose the meaninglessness of an empty world over the meaninglessness of an idle one.

_Pieces of green sunlight flitting through the forest canopy_

"_It's a pretty color. I like it."_

Actually, that would be half a lie.

It is true most of those answers have long deteriorated beyond retrieval; the few pieces that he _did_ have were fragmented and incongruous to each other. Yet every bit managed to dredge up old,_familiar_ waves of...emotions. He dared not attempt to identify them.

_Gold shimmers dancing over a laughing stream_

_A smile even more joyous, more innocent_

Such feelings are meaningless, Ulquiorra had decided, and so are the memories that brought them. They followed no sense. They served no purpose. So he tossed them away like a moth shedding the restraints of its dried-up cocoon. Just like that. No regrets, no longing. No more feeling, for feelings only hindered the mind.

A meaningless process that only the weak retain so they can hide behind it; he was not sorry to dispose of it. Emotions are useless, because they held absolutely no power over the plane of existence that determined survival.

_Sunsets of brilliant orange lending its radiance to an impassive sea_

_Wisps of a deeper mahogany, somehow shining brighter than the dying sun_

But, a shattered mess as they were, the memories kept coming back in even more jumbled pieces, like lint that insists upon clinging to perfectly pristine clothes even after they were flicked away with a dismayed hand.

After a while, even the feelings he never tried to categorize became a blur, one no longer distinguishable from the other.

_They say the postmaster's little girl flew_

_Over the barn, someone said. The doctor saw it_

_The reverend came with his books; they say he knew of all the devil's tricks, of all the evil spirits' doings_

Although…through it all, he remembered the disdain. How he used to hate the disgusting world that had dared to lay its avaricious hands on an important_ something_ he did not bother to remember. It no longer mattered to him what that something was (or so he liked to believe), though he could not push away the fragments of memories quite as easily as he would have liked to. Yes, they were even less coherent than before. Yes, they meant nothing to him, at least not to his mind. (And certainly not to the heart he no longer had; the heart he no longer wanted.)

_Vengeance is on the loose tonight_

The disdain made sense, though, even when the memories (and the rest of the sentiments) did not.

_They dared. THEY DARED TO—_

What were those humans, insignificant and revolting as they are in their very nature while putting up the pretense of being a mockery of good? Even worse, they are utterly powerless. Powerless to protect their own pitiful souls from the "demons," as they so arrogantly and ignorantly branded the spirits they could not comprehend.

Hypocrites. Trash.

Every one of them.

It would have been fine to retain these thoughts; the situation would have been to his perfect satisfaction (minus the fact that being satisfied also served no purpose, really) if only things were so easy.

_The willow's miserably thin branches had not a shred of green on them._

_The dead of winter, he nonchalantly observed._

And of course, as all stories go, (even the broken ones), it wasn't.

_There are no flowers in bloom._

_Pity_.

.x.x.x.x.

* * *

.x.x.x.x.

_始まりがない物語は生き__ているのに_

_A story with no beginning does live_

_心__が__ない_

_But it lives without a heart_

.x.x.x.x.

_意味はない_

_Without a meaning_

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* * *

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Ulquiorra suggested this new addition to the master-plan himself. Of course he knew Aizen did not need any of it, but the renegade shinigami had approved of his proposition without raising even one of his perfectly arched brows. And that was the end of that.

He expected the woman to attempt to heal those insignificant beings that were accompanying her; that was why he did not kill them. That was why he struck at all, actually, to observe her capabilities more closely. They were weak enough to be simply ignored, would have posed neither an obstacle nor an annoyance. He expected her to say goodbye to the orange-haired shinigami. Had hoped so; that one would move the plan along quite nicely. He expected her to show up of her own accord, to obediently stick with a promise made, even if it was a forced promise.

Aren'tcha having too much fun with this, he heard Gin say to Aizen later. That wasn't a surprise. Ulquiorra did not mind their intents, though later he wondered if he shouldn't have caught the further implications.

He wasn't even as surprised as he thought he would be when she declared her "allegiance" with barely a moment's hesitation. Maybe he had expected her to be strong; just did not admit it to himself. After all, "human" and "strong" did not tend to belong in the same sentence without a negative.

What Ulquiorra didn't expect, didn't understand, was how pitifully that woman had clung to the ones she had left behind when she came to this world. Those friends of hers have only doomed themselves by coming on this supposed "rescue mission," for there is no other possible outcome. Yet she still dared to hope, and that irritated him.

Especially when her hope did not simply extend toward her friends.

"Um…Ulquiorra-san, right?" She had said to him after staring out the window for an hour that first day, hesitant, unsure whether talking to her guard would set off unwanted chain reactions. Those were the first words she said to him, since that first time didn't exactly leave room for pleasantries on her part.

The fact that she had attached an honorific to his name did not escape his notice. He felt strangely satisfied that this woman would consider him…_human_ enough to be addressed that way. The satisfaction quickly gave way to a flicker of displeasure at the distant title (but what else was he expecting?). That too soon got swallowed up by the wave of annoyance over that he would even _care_ what the prisoner regarded him as so long as she knew her proper station.

"Ulquiorra-san?"

Persistent. Annoying. If she is hoping to achieve anything with idle conversation, that woman is gravely mistaken. Ulquiorra closed his eyes to shut out the too-bright hair that threatened to permanently burn its image into his retinas. Would have sighed, too, if only he did such things.

"What do you want?" Not that he'll give it to her.

"Oh, um…nothing." She was suddenly flustered. What happened to the persistence? Perhaps she was surprised he had responded at all. Such a ridiculous creature. "I thought…since, you know, we'll probably be seeing each other a whole lot, you being my guard and all…I should…" her cheeks flushed. Was she embarrassed at her own thoughts? What for? It's not like anyone else will know of it. "I should at least know your name," she finished with considerably less volume than she started with.

"You were correct." Ulquiorra stood up to leave. He was slightly, just slightly, disappointed that she made no objections and no further comments. Whatever she would have done would no doubt have been…fascinating.

Pity, then. He'll just have to save the observation for another day.

And observe her he did. Probably far more than he should have; now he was intrigued beyond what he would have normally considered sane. She simply made no sense, and yet at the same time made perfect sense, matching neatly into a hole in his mind that he did not realize had existed.

This is all just a game to Aizen, he had told Nnoitra.

He's getting his fun at our expenses whether you wanted to entertain him or not; that remained unsaid. Such words are unnecessary.

None of them really knew what sort of ending Aizen planned to lead them to. Ulquiorra is willing to wager even the other two shinigami did not know with certainty. Though, of course, he thinks he has a pretty good guess.

But more and more, he found himself hoping (_another_ result of that woman's presence) that whatever game Aizen is playing, his part will remain involved with Inoue Orihime's until the end. (He knows there is an end; he is not delusional.) Though he doubted it. Gin had said he hated sad stories; that is enough to give anyone suspicions.

Or maybe their endings will be part of the same story; it would just be a tragedy that ends far too soon.

If that is the case, Ulquiorra would dare to hope that this ending would never come. Perhaps Fate (or Aizen; what's the difference?) would be kind enough to stop writing their tale and keep it forever incomplete, forever frozen in the still-joyous rising actions before the dolorous climax.

Hope. There it is again.

Sometimes he _hoped_ the woman had never existed, for he could no longer keep away from her.

"Ulquiorra-san is really quite nice," she said around a mouthful of ketchup-covered donut. He had speculated this approach would be much easier than threats of force-feeding (that he never could carry out, for some reason). He was right, to a certain degree. The drawbacks being, naturally, the woman's unfortunate misconceptions, or so he liked to make himself believe. Certainly there are other, less pleasant ways to insure she did not starve herself to death, force-feeding included, but Ulquiorra could not be bother to consider them.

"Are you not afraid?" His voice carried just a hint of mockery.

She paused, whether caught off guard by his question or to gather her thoughts he could not tell (could never tell with this abnormality); then shook her head resolutely, sending those sunny strands of hair whirling. Suddenly he realized what that color was – it had already imprinted its own brilliance into his mind long ago. Some vestiges of those muted memories confirmed it. That explained the familiarity (the almost instinctual closeness that should never be there), but only some of the fascination.

_Sunset over an impassive sea_

He vehemently wished he had successfully thrown the memories away.

"Afraid of…this place, yes." Her brown eyes were downcast for a moment. The donut lies forsaken upon the white paper bag. "But not when you are here," she finished, flashing him one of those thoughtless smiles.

_Shimmering stream_

That expression had (re)grown frequent in spite of the misery she had plunged herself into at the beginning, making a comeback ever since the donuts. And accompanied walks around Hueco Mundo. And his prolonged stays in her room just so she could babble at him. All for observational purposes, he insisted to himself (and to her, on several occasions, though she was either never convinced or never listening). The excuse just grew less and less believable, until he gave up trying to convince himself altogether.

"You should be." Ulquiorra got up to leave. The way he did every other time he felt the conversation spinning outside the boundaries that defined what he could trust himself to speak of.

What she said next, he was definitely not expecting.

"Should be afraid of _you_? Or should…not be when you are here?" Looks like she was not as hopelessly imperceptive as they all thought.

"That depends on you." The words tumbled out before he could check himself; he immediately regretted it. "Should be afraid of me" would have made things so much simpler; "should be afraid of this place" would have sufficed and cause minimal damage. Even no response at all would have been a better one; ignoring her would just be part of the norm. The only way the situation could possibly get worse was if he admitted she shouldn't be afraid.

The thing is, he really had no idea what he was trying to put into words.

Thankfully, she seemed to share the sentiment. If she had picked out other meanings…that was not something he wanted to deal with.

"Ulquiorra-san isn't making any sense today." _Really_, now? How incisive.

"Would you care to know why?" His voice was still the constant, level tone it always has been, though it may have carried slivers of sarcasm, danger, and _challenge_ (to the both of them). Beyond a doubt he doesn't know what he was doing anymore, other than he thinks he is following a…gut feeling, as they called it. Ulquiorra rarely followed spur-of-the-moment intuition, because he was seldom so pressed for time as to require them. Outside of absolute need, they were not used at all. Too flawed.

So why start now?

She was definitely caught off guard this time. Ulquiorra hardly ever (no, never did) offered extra words. "If…if Ulquiorra-san wants to tell m-"

He was suddenly in front of her, his face only a breath's width away from hers thanks to their comparable height.

Her eyes grew wide as her cheeks reddened from the unexpected closeness. It's not a bad color on her, he found himself thinking idly. It suits her better than the pallor she had picked up during her still-short stay.

Chalk-white fingers traced the contour of her jaw, stopping delicately just below her chin. His hand left behind a trail of ice upon her face, while every other inch of her skin flared with a strange and unfamiliar warmth. Her face flushed even more as she sought his eyes, questioning, yet still filled with trepidation over the moment their gazes would finally meet.

But he wasn't looking at her eyes, instead scrutinizing some other part of her face. A thumb ghosted over the air just above her lips, eliciting a sharp intake of breath; she seems to have remembered she had stopped breathing when he approached.

They stood like this for a few moments (or was it longer? Neither could tell), Orihime's posture frozen at the touch (the only thing keeping her from crashing to the floor this moment), Ulquiorra's stance still casual yet elegantly commanding (with a talent only he possessed).

And then his lips met hers.

Lips so cold(_warm_) it burns her(_him_).

The uncertain contact quickly spiraled into a wild caress as she overcame her initial astonishment and responds to him, even as her knees finally gave out and her sole support now stems from the marble-cold arms now encircling her.

They said to each other things they would never dare put into words, because both are afraid of what would come crashing down.

The thing which breeds such irrationality, the thing that has both of them strangled in its chains is…love? He does not believe so, still convinced over the uselessness of emotions and his own lack of them.

It is a memory, then; a mere insubstantial manifestation of no-longer-there pieces that was left over from life. His actions are a reaction to a memory of love, he admits; that much he is willing to concede.

"This is why," he whispered, his breath cool against her flushed skin.

_This is why_, he tells himself.

"It…it still doesn't m…make sense," Orihime stammered, breath coming in sporadic gasps. They stood close in embrace, so close that her voice formed tantalizing tremors against his body.

He would have smiled at her ingenuousness.

"Would you like me to further elucidate?"

.x.x.x.x.

* * *

.x.x.x.x.

_始まりがない物語は生きる_

_A story with no beginning will live_

_新しい始めをあげられる時に_

_When someone gives it a new beginning_

.x.x.x.x.

_意味も_

_And a meaning_

.x.x.x.x.

* * *

.x.x.x.x.

十分な確率で良くなく終わるそう、それはこの事だ。ウルキオラは知っている。

There is sufficient probability this won't end well; Ulquiorra knew that.

-x-

構わない。

Not that he cared.

.x.x.x.x.

**おわり**

.x.x.x.x.

* * *

**End A/N: **Honestly, parts of this seem really…out of nowhere to me. Oh well, what is done is done. 

Feel free to make your own conclusions about what he meant by "further elucidate." 8D; Your imaginations will probably yield much more interesting results than anything I can write at present.

Reviews would be appreciated. :


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